


Ask and It Shall Be Given You (But You Have to Ask)

by BuggreAlleThis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Bible, Bibliomancy, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fix-It, G. K. Chesterton - Orthodoxy, Gen, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuggreAlleThis/pseuds/BuggreAlleThis
Summary: Legally obligatory Lockdown fic. After his conversation with Crowley, Aziraphale is anxious and turns to his favourite form of divination for guidance.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 128
Kudos: 521





	Ask and It Shall Be Given You (But You Have to Ask)

**Author's Note:**

> I submitted my thesis and was instantly rewarded with the Good Omens Lockdown video! So now I have at least a month before my viva and I intend to spend most of it writing fic and catching up on replying to all your comments on my other fics! I've got chapters in the works for both Hext House and More Lonely Than Distrust, but I had to get this one out of my system first. 
> 
> Thanks and credit to [ileolai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai) and the others in [this post](https://ileolai.tumblr.com/post/617157392538484736) for articulating exactly what I was thinking when the first seed of this was growing.

Crowley had hung up on him.

Aziraphale was left standing beside his telephone, the _brrrrr_ of the dial tone ringing in his ear. The last time Crowley had hung up on him… Well. _“Yeah, it's not a good time. Got an old friend here.”_

Here he was, months on, and remembering that day still made his heart race. He wondered if he’d ever be able to think about it without his blood turning to icemelt.

And yet…

_“Goodnight, angel.”_ The tenderness in it had made Aziraphale’s throat close up. Firm and wistful and patient. The tenderness, after the audible disappointment.

Aziraphale hung up the phone. He felt… disappointed too. They had disappointed each other.

The bookshop, which had felt so cosy and safe, suddenly felt as though a chill wind had blown through it.

He barely knew why he’d decided to ring, right in the middle of writing a letter. Maybe he’d wanted to hear Crowley’s voice. Or… well, he’d been _worrying_ how Crowley was coping with the boredom and the loneliness, social creature that he was. Crowley’s tone when he’d first answered the phone had quite confirmed that he’d been right to be concerned! No wonder Crowley was bored – there really was nothing to do in that vast, fashionable flat with its disconcerting spinning doors and air of fear from the houseplants.

It wasn’t _just_ concern. He wanted Crowley’s company. He enjoyed his own, of course. He was used to it.

Each of the cakes had been missing just a little something. The Courvoisier tasted a touch bitter, and Aziraphale had caught himself thinking about how _nice_ it would be to be getting drunk with Crowley and play some ridiculous game instead of sedately sipping while he read. The Apocalypse must had addled his brain.

But just _ringing_ Crowley _first_ had taken his entire store of courage, and then when Crowley offered to break the rules, just as Aziraphale had secretly hoped, Aziraphale had given the usual reply-

And Crowley had agreed, and said goodnight.

It had been like missing a step in the dark – the lurch of terror, like a hook behind his intestines catching on a door-handle.

Aziraphale had been feeling bereft. Now he also felt disturbed.

Books were a comfort to Aziraphale, in more ways than one. Bibliomancy had rarely let him down – he remembered the Apocalypse again, and Agnes Nutter. God didn’t speak to him anymore, not since he’d lied to Her, but sometimes, perhaps, he’d thought that She might deign to give him a little hint through other people’s words. That was why he’d always loved prophets. A mad bunch, on the whole, but their madness felt as close to the holiness of God as he was able to come any more.

He had two Bibles at his desk. One for reference, on the shelf above, and one for the _sortes Sanctorum_ , tucked away beneath the bottom drawer. This was because the second Bible was not in the form of a codex: it was a large, flat box, carved rosewood inlaid with brass stars and flowers of nacre, and it contained 31,105 painstakingly transcribed verses on 31,105 slips of paper. 23,145 in Hebrew or Aramaic, 7,957 in Greek, and three in English.

Aziraphale opened the box, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind. His fingers drifted through the slips of paper like the wind through dry leaves, birthing a susurrus as he tried to form his question. What, precisely, was he asking? He and Crowley, and the lockdown, and should they (could they?) weather it together…?

His fingers closed around a slip. He blinked to clear his vision and looked down at the lines of Hebrew.

Malachi 3:10. _“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this,” says the Lord Almighty, “and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it.”_

Well. That was certainly encouraging.

Or, thought Aziraphale, it could be sarcastic. _Throwing open the floodgates of Heaven_ felt like a very ominous phrase. It’d be just like Heaven to say that pouring down fire and brimstone on their traitorous angel was, in fact, a blessing. And there was Deuteronomy to consider: Do not put your God to the test.

Oh, his chest hurt. Aziraphale pressed his fist to his sternum; for a being who didn’t need to breathe, he felt horribly short of breath. A little dizzy, even, as though his mind was swirling around a heavy lump of dread caught in his throat…

He closed the bibliomancy box, and stood up. He swayed for a second, and looked around at the mountains of theological texts and cake.

He’d give it another go, he thought. No Bibles, this time. He’d been reading Bunyan and Homer and Chesterton for guidance; he’d ask them. His eye caught the instantly recognisable faded green of a Greek Loeb – the second volume of the Iliad. Yes, that was perfectly appropriate for stichomancy: the _sortes Homericae_! Unfortunate that the Loebs divided the Iliad into two, but he knew where he had a single volume of the Greek text.

He performed the bibliomancy properly, setting the book down on its spine, letting it fall open, and then touching a line before he opened his eyes.

_Aidesthen men anenasthai, deisan d’hupodechthai_. Ashamed to deny him but fearing to meet him.

Aziraphale slammed the book shut. _Really_.

He looked up at Heaven, a habit he hadn’t yet been able to break. His fault for picking a pagan source, in all likelihood… Oh, who was he fooling? Not himself, unfortunately. Whether there was any magic in the bibliomancy or not, he’d understood the line immediately.

Why was he afraid to meet Crowley? Well, technically it’d be breaking the rules, that was the first concern…. But neither of them would spread the illness, and they could pass unnoticed if they put a little effort in.

He had a niggling feeling that if Crowley _were_ in lockdown with him, eventually he would grow tired of Aziraphale’s idiosyncrasies. The last time they’d spent so long in each other’s company had been on the roof of the Ark, and then they’d been barely talking.

But that wasn’t quite right either. Ashamed to deny him, yes, fearing to meet him, yes… But if Crowley had pressed and pushed, Aziraphale would have given in, and he’d have been excited that Crowley was on his way.

But Crowley hadn’t pressed. He hadn’t pushed.

That’s what it all came down to, in the end. Aziraphale sat on the sofa rather than in his usual seat, and played with the hem of the paisley throw. The fabric was soft with age, and the pattern was familiar. Crowley suggested, Aziraphale evaded, Crowley tempted and persuaded… The dance of plausible deniability. Their roles, assigned to them before the world was made.

But Crowley didn’t want to dance any more.

His heart was beginning to pound.

On the right hand side of the desk, a half-written letter. On the left, four discarded drafts. Propped against Plato’s Chariot, waiting to be posted, the letter he had already written, signed and sealed with dark green wax, waved over a censer of frankincense, containing a pressed cornflower. Aziraphale had pressed flowers throughout the shop, enough for any and every possible message.

Crowley had offered, and Aziraphale had rejected, and Crowley had said he would sleep until July. A chill ran up Aziraphale’s spine. Was it a punishment? That was hardly fair, to change the rules of the game without telling him. But then again… it wasn’t exactly fair of Aziraphale, was it? To let Crowley always shoulder the burden of asking.

He felt ill. The sight of the cakes was nauseating. He stood up and paced, back and forth, round and about, picking out books and reshelving them without so much as glancing at the titles.

He could _ask_ Crowley to join him.

It was technically allowed, after all. As long as they weren’t nipping back and forth constantly – if Crowley really did _hunker down_ with him, well, even the excuse of setting a bad example…

Ah, there was a Freudian slip.

And even… Even if Aziraphale thought of it in terms of sharing the humans’ griefs and frustrations… He could choose that for himself, if he desperately wanted to (and he didn’t, he’d shouldered plenty of griefs and frustrations over the millennia), but he couldn’t force it on Crowley, and Crowley was the one suffering. Crowley was the one who needed company and novelty, and who was prepared to sleep the months away…

The problem was.

The problem _was_.

Aziraphale had rather hoped that their usual back-and-forth, their usual dance, would have worked. Crowley would come around, and neither of them would be so anxious and alone. But Crowley was making a point, and the point was more important than whatever boredom and misery he was personally feeling.

From now on, the rules of the game had changed, and Aziraphale felt as though the very Earth had been pulled out from under his feet.

The sun had risen and was sending shafts of pale gold streaming into the bookshop. The weather had been unfairly gorgeous throughout the whole lockdown, and now it cruelly told Aziraphale that he’d fretted the whole night to flinders. And now Crowley might already be asleep, and Aziraphale had hesitated too long, to…

To ask. To ask Crowley to join him.

He strangled his hands. Crowley had always been happy with _hints._ Aziraphale didn’t mind _hints_. Hints could be ignored, sparing them both from the harshness of an outright denial. That was why the cut direct had been so much more violent than the indirect, after all.

But a request – what was it that Jack Lewis had said? “The essence of request, as distinct from compulsion, is that it may or may not be granted.” Well, that was it. Now there was no apocalypse to compel Crowley – there have been pandemics before, and Aziraphale knew the difference, even if the distinction could feel theoretical from time to time. No urgency, no lives at stake. Just Aziraphale, asking.

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you. Not in Aziraphale’s experience. That was for God’s mortal children, not for angels. Or not for one particular angel.

His eyes kept drifting towards the centre of the bookshop. The oculus looking down, the summoning circle looking up. And he had stood in between the two, asking the Metatron to stop it all, begging God in the core of his being to stop it, to stop it, please, _please, God, don’t let this happen. Please. Please._

He’d begged Her to reconsider the Flood. He’d begged Her to stop the Plagues. He’d begged Her to let him do _something_ at the Crucifixion – Jesus hadn’t deserved that, no one deserved a death like that.

At least God had just ignored him. He’d learnt not to make direct requests of Gabriel; not only would they be denied, he’d take the very request as treacherous in some way. _“Bit arrogant, isn’t it, buddy? To think you know better than the Almighty? Where’s your faith? Where’s your trust? Why don’t you trust us, Aziraphale?”_

Aziraphale’s teeth were chattering despite the rising heat of the morning. If he didn’t ask, Crowley would be upset, and sleep for God knew how long. But if he did… His mind tried to assure him that Crowley would come right over. He’d offered to! So why was his corporation acting like this? Why did he feel fear like a cold rock in his stomach? Why did a simple question feel so _unsafe_?

One more check. He closed his eyes and stumbled towards his desk, grabbing the first book his hand found. G. K. Chesterton’s _Orthodoxy_. That was good – some straight-talking sense was what he needed. Aziraphale turned the book over and over in his hands, twisting it until he couldn’t tell the front from the back, opened it, and pressed his finger to the centre of the page.

_“But the point is that a story is exciting because it has in it so strong an element of will, of what theology calls free will. You cannot finish a sum how you like. But you can finish a story how you like.”_

Well, _bugger_.

It took him another hour to actually build up the courage to do it. _Orthodoxy_ watched him make three cups of tea in silent judgement. The tea had been a mistake, as the caffeine only exacerbated the assault on his nerves.

Crowley was the brave one. Aziraphale was a coward.

God must have known that when She named him. Even his name was a request for strength. _God, heal my courage_. He couldn’t help feeling like it was just one more unanswered petition.

Eventually, when his mind had caught up with the decision his heart had made, the suspense outweighed the fear, and he dialled Crowley’s number with trembling fingers.

It rang four times. Then there was the sound of the receiver being dragged out of its cradle, and Aziraphale was greeted with a grunt.

“Nh?”

“Hello,” he whispered. “… it’s me again.”

“Hmm.” There was a pause. Then Crowley asked, in a softer voice. “You all right, angel?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Spiffing. Um. Not- not asleep yet, are you?”

“… no.”

Crowley didn’t say anything else, and Aziraphale knew he was waiting. “Would, um, would you like-“

But his voice died then. He didn’t think that counted, in what his mind had gleaned of Crowley’s new rules. That was still placing the burden of the decision on Crowley, and he knew Crowley would like to come round. Crowley had suggested it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried again, and swallowed painfully. His mouth was so dry... “Could you come over?”

He’d squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know know whether the lightning bolt was going to come from God or from Heaven or, somehow, from Crowley – right up through the receiver into his ear.

“What about the lockdown?”

It had come from Crowley after all.

Aziraphale nearly panicked and hung up. He _very_ nearly dropped the receiver; he managed to catch it, and he juggled it with more than his usual clumsiness. “Oh, bother, I-“ he said, and searched desperately for something to say. His eyes were itching, the ache at the back of his throat felt treacherously familiar… “If you think- I mean, well, Rules are Rules, I quite understand, I’m sorry to have-“

“No, angel, hey. Stop. Of course I’m coming over,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale pressed the receiver to his ear with both hands, until it hurt. “If I get stopped, I’ll say I’m making an essential delivery to an elderly relative.”

“Oh, very amusing,” Aziraphale snapped. “How very drôle.”

“A highly important medicine delivery,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could hear him moving. “Alcohol’s medicinal. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t worry.”

It only took Crowley nine to drive over from his flat, with the streets so empty, but that was more than enough time for Aziraphale to worry a button right off his waistcoat.

If he noticed that Aziraphale had been waiting at the door, opening it after only half a knock, he didn’t make any reference to it. He didn’t suggest that the missing waistcoat button was due to a surfeit of cakes. Instead he let Aziraphale flutter through to fetch glasses, and showed off by balancing the crate of Château le Gay on the tip of his finger.

He didn’t remark on the piles of Chesterton and Bunyan being hurriedly moved out of sight. He took his sunglasses off. He gave the cakes the requisite praise, he poured the wine, he interrogated Aziraphale about his burglars.

The aggressive normality of it was like a firm but gentle hand stroking Aziraphale’s feathers down. Slowly, slowly, his heartbeat became less shallow, less frantic and thready; the vice around his chest loosened; the dizzy dread of expecting the sudden blow eased.

“What cake do you fancy?” Crowley asked when he stood after they’d finished the first bottle.

“Oh!” Aziraphale felt slightly nauseated. A decision was impossible, even over something as harmless as which slice of cake to eat. Everything was suddenly fraught again. “I haven’t even offered you any cake, and you came all this way, because I- because I-“

“Because you asked me to,” Crowley confirmed, softly. With pleasure in his voice. “There’s red velvet cake? You didn’t tell me you’d made that – do you want a slice?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale replied weakly. He took his slice, and managed a smile when Crowley miracled his own cream icing black.

Neither of them mentioned it again until the end of the second bottle. “I did _want_ you to,” Aziraphale suddenly said in a rush, the words spilling from his mouth, “to come round, but the lockdown _is_ for a good reason, and even if _we know_ the scientific reasons don’t apply to us there are still _rules_ , and if the humans have to abide by them then it felt wrong. I felt…” His hand fluttered over his heart, trying to say what his mouth couldn’t. “I _still feel_ …”

Crowley was frowning at him, but it was a gentle frown. He was trying to understand. “Did you think I’d say no? I’d already offered, angel.”

“No. I know. I don’t know – I mean, I know you’d offered, but I don’t know what- what I expected would happen.” But without thinking he glanced up through the oculus.

Crowley got up and fetched another bottle of wine. He looked down at the top and started on it with Aziraphale’s enormous antique corkscrew, sparing Aziraphale from having to make eye contact. “Would it really have made the difference? You asking, instead of being persuaded?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It makes no sense. None of it’s _rational_ , I just… It felt so dangerous. Feels, to be honest. My mind knows one thing but then I just _feel_ so… It’s no excuse. I’m so sorry. Here you are, I’m meant to be entertaining you, and instead I’m making you listen to a whole lot of _nonsense-_ “

“No, no,” Crowley said, and abandoned the wine. “Don’t do that. Not to me. I couldn’t bear it if you did that to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to meet Crowley’s, just to take in his gaze, then dropped back to stare at his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” Crowley’s voice was very soft. “I’m really glad, angel. I’m really happy that you asked me here.”

Aziraphale glanced at him again, for half a second longer. “I could have gone to yours.”

He heard Crowley lean back with a snort. “Nah. You’d have gone mad without all your books around you. And how exactly would you have brought all those cakes over? Much nicer here. In fact…” Aziraphale looked up at him properly. “As it’d be socially irresponsible to be back and forth all the time, I think you’re stuck with me here for a bit. I’ll put my flat on AirBnB. I’m right next to the children’s hospital, I bet parents would pay whatever I asked for.”

This shocked a laugh out of Aziraphale, and he tossed one of the corks at Crowley’s head. “Oh, you wicked thing!”

“Price-gouging, they call it,” Crowley said proudly.

“You are _awful_.” Crowley filled up a glass and passed it to him. “You could offer it for free, if they’re visiting their children… Or offer it to the hospital, for any of the doctors or nurses.”

“Urgh.” Crowley mimed vomiting. “Though, it makes a good bet. What do you fancy? Dal? Chess? Piquet – we haven’t played piquet for ages.”

Aziraphale studied him. “… what if I asked you to?”

“Ah.” Crowley smiled at him so very affectionately. “Yeah. All right.”


End file.
